To Dance with the Devil bs-6

by Cat Adams

  “Yes. Mr. Creede gave it to me. He said that I’d need it if I was going to meet with you.”

  “You spoke with John personally?”

  She nodded. “He was very … kind.”

  Yeah, he was that kind of guy. It was one of the many reasons I missed him. I took a long drink of my smoothie, using it as an excuse to not speak while I gathered my thoughts. “All right, Michelle,” I went ahead and used her name. She hadn’t introduced herself, but in her state I don’t think she’d realized it. I said, forcing myself to smile—but not too much; no fang. “Your mother didn’t come to me for protection for herself. She wanted someone to guard her daughter.” It was a stretch to say what I did next, but it was something that had occurred to me just that morning. “I wonder if it had something to do with your adoption, with your birth parents?”

  “My what? No.” Michelle shook her head. “That’s impossible.” She reached into her bag, pulling out her cell phone. After a couple of quick strokes, she passed me the phone.

  The screen showed a photo. It was a cute picture. Michelle was kneeling beside her mother’s wheelchair, hugging her. Michelle was wearing a cap and gown—I assumed from her college graduation, given how she looked now—and Abigail was beaming with joy and pride as she held her daughter’s diploma in her lap.

  “Is this the woman you met with?”

  “Yes.”

  Michelle shook her head in vigorous denial. “But I’m not adopted. I’m not.”

  “Look—” I started to speak, but she interrupted me.

  “No! Damn it, no. I refuse to believe my entire life is a lie. She’s my mother. My real mother. Do you understand? She wouldn’t lie to me. Not about something this important.”

  Actually, I suspected she would, if it would keep Michelle safe. Abigail Andrews had appeared to me to be a tough, pragmatic woman. Kids talk. Oh, they swear each other to secrecy … and sometimes, not often, they even keep the secrets. But mostly, they talk. Adults do, too. If you truly want to keep a secret, you don’t tell anyone.

  “Did she ask you to come here? Say the two of you needed to talk?” That was a shot in the dark, but it made sense.

  I’ll give her this, Michelle Andrews wasn’t stupid. She caught my drift immediately. It pissed her off, and she reacted pretty much the same way her mother had a few days earlier.

  She stood, shaking and with tears of rage in her eyes. “You bitch.” She turned on her heel, then shoved her way through the crowd and out the door.

  Sighing, I brought the last of the smoothie to my lips, determined to enjoy it before it got too cold and became inedible. I was sipping it when I heard the crack of a rifle.

  16

  People often tell themselves a gunshot is just fireworks or a car backfiring. The sound is similar and the lies are reassuring. But there’ve been enough nut jobs on shooting sprees in the news recently that people don’t simply assume the sound is harmless anymore. When they hear it, they look around. And when they see a woman fall to the ground, bloody and screaming in agony, they react—badly.

  People began trampling each other to get away from the restaurant’s glass doors. Some dived under tables, seeking cover. Nearly everyone was screaming. I could see a few people on their phones and hoped they were dialing 911. The smell of fear filled the air and despite the fact that my stomach was full, the predator within me began rising to the surface. My vision sharpened to hyperfocus as my body took on a sepulchral glow.

  I needed out of there now, before I did something irretrievable. Drawing my Colt, I flipped off the safety. Holding it at my side, I stepped through the patio doors, moving quickly among the knocked-over tables that shielded the crouching restaurant workers and patrons.

  Amid their sobs and prayers, I moved to cover, a corner formed by the awning post and wall. Peering out, I scanned for sniper spots. There were one or two, empty. No gunmen were in sight.

  Michelle Andrews lay in the middle of the parking lot in a spreading pool of blood.

  Taking a chance, I slid my gun back in its holster, vaulted the patio railing, and dashed across the lot.

  No one shot at me. In fact, everything outside La Cocina was perfectly normal—other than the body on the ground. Traffic flowed by on the street, people were walking along the sidewalk. There were sirens in the distance, growing closer. But that was it. Eerie. I knelt beside the injured woman. The shot had hit her in the right shoulder, creating a mess of shattered bone and torn flesh.

  The smell of blood and meat made my mouth water. I closed my eyes, willing the beast within me under control. I was winning when Michelle whimpered.

  My body swayed from the effort it took to fight down primal instincts roused by the sound of wounded prey. I wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t food. Damn it, she wasn’t food.

  Shaking with effort, I managed to open my eyes and found her staring at me, her own eyes wide with fear and pain.

  “Help me. Please, help me,” Michelle pleaded weakly.

  I couldn’t speak—I knew if I tried, I’d hiss, and that would only terrify her more—so I nodded. Swallowing hard, I stripped off my jacket and T-shirt. She shrieked in agony when I pressed the quickly folded shirt against the wound and put pressure on it, to try to slow the bleeding. I knew it wouldn’t stop—the injury was too severe. But slowing the blood loss might keep her alive long enough for the medics to arrive.

  They were coming. The sirens were very close now. I just had to hold on. I closed my eyes, blocking out everything but keeping pressure on the wound. Sights, sounds, smells—anything that might bring the bat that fraction closer to the surface was a threat. I was in control, but only by the thinnest of threads. I knew that anything at all could push me over that edge.

  “Celia.” I recognized Barbara’s voice. She spoke softly and clearly. “You need to go. If they see you over the body like this…”

  “Pressure, blood loss.” I couldn’t seem to manage a full sentence, and there was a definite lisp to my s sounds.

  “I’ve got it. Go. You’re burning and glowing. They’ll shoot you on sight if they see you like this.”

  I nodded. Staggering to my feet, I lurched over to my nearby rental SUV. I prayed I hadn’t locked the doors—and I hadn’t. I hauled myself inside, slamming the door behind me.

  The relief was instantaneous. I hadn’t consciously acknowledged the pain of the sun burning my skin, but now tears of relief poured unheeded down my cheeks as I lay panting, curled in the fetal position, on the smooth leather seats.

  The back of my mind heard the ambulance and police cars arrive, but I didn’t move. I lay still in the hot, dim interior of the SUV, too weak to move, whether from post-traumatic shock or reaction to the fight with my inner vampire, I couldn’t say. Either way, I was going nowhere and was grateful to be left alone. Footsteps, voices, the sound of vehicles pulling out of the parking lot—I ignored them all.

  Eventually there was a soft tap on the driver’s-side window. I groaned, raising myself onto one elbow just as the door opened.

  Sunlight hit me like a club. I threw my arm in front of my face and hissed. Just like in the movies.

  “Whoa. Easy, Celia. Easy.” Alex’s voice was both gentle and stern. It’s an unusual combination, but it works for her.

  I swallowed hard. Lowering my arm, I turned so I could sit up. “Ssssorry. What are you doing here?” I knew it was her day off, so I was surprised she’d caught this case.

  “Barbara called me. She said you saved the victim and that you were in a bad way. She was afraid if any of the other cops saw you they’d shoot you, stake you, and take off your head.”

  Thank God for Barbara and her quick thinking.

  “Do you want my statement?” I spoke carefully so that I wouldn’t lisp or hiss.

  “I’ll send Charles over in a minute. I wanted to give you your jacket and make sure you were capable of giving a statement before I let him talk to you.”

  “Thanks.” I took the jacket from her hand. I was wear
ing a pretty lacy bra, and it felt wrong not having a top over it in public. I shifted in my seat and shrugged into the jacket, wincing a little as the fabric touched my quickly healing sunburn. Buttoned, it made me look like a Frederick’s of Hollywood model, but I felt better. I’d take all the help I could get. “Alex, do me a favor.”

  “What?” She sounded suspicious.

  “Grab me a piece of gravel from the parking lot.”

  She blinked a couple of times before bending down and doing what I asked. As she reached out to hand it to me, she said, “Mind telling me why?”

  “It’s for Dottie. I figured I might have her take a look to see what actually happened.”

  Alex let out a low whistle. “It takes some serious chops for a clairvoyant to do that sort of thing. We don’t have anybody on staff with that much power.”

  “Yeah, well, it takes a lot out of her, so I don’t ask her to do it too often. In fact, the way she strained herself yesterday, I’m thinking she won’t be able to do it at all. Still, it doesn’t hurt to pick up a piece. Just in case.”

  Alex sighed. “Yeah. Though the judge might not admit the evidence or testimony anyway.” There had been a lot of rulings recently against the use of magic in police investigations. The theory was that magic was too easy to manipulate with illusion—which is true, up to a point. It was tying the hands of the cops who were just trying to do their jobs.

  Alex shook her head ruefully. “I bet it’s something to see.”

  I fought not to shudder. The first time I’d seen Dottie do this particular trick, I’d gotten to witness my own murder. Not exactly a pleasant memory. “If we wind up doing it, I’ll give you a call.”

  “I might just take you up on that. But first, you need to give a statement. You okay to do that now?”

  I took a deep breath. I felt better, more like myself than I had a few minutes earlier. “Yeah.”

  She gave a brisk nod, then stood up and stepped away from the SUV, shutting the door.

  She was back in less than a minute, accompanied by another detective. I assumed that meant he’d been waiting nearby for the all clear. Smart move. Everyone was being careful around me, but at the same time they were giving me the chance to control myself, to show that I was not a monster. I appreciated that, quite a lot. At one time a large number of cops in the department had been actively seeking an excuse to execute me. Times and things had changed for the better. I wanted to keep them that way.

  When the car door opened again, I was ready and didn’t react to the sunlight. Instead, I smiled, careful not to show fangs, and said, “Hello.”

  “Hello, Ms. Graves. I’m Charles Andrulis.” The man in the doorway stood back just a bit, holding up the gold badge of a detective. He was a small man, probably barely made the minimum height requirements for the force. His features reminded me of a pet ferret one of my former clients had doted on—sharp features, bright dark eyes, and just a hint of sharp teeth. Not that I actually saw his teeth. But the impression was there just the same.

  He looked me over appraisingly, taking in everything from the perspiration coating my skin to the drying blood on my hands. “I understand you were the first one out of the building and that you gave first aid to the victim. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. We’d been talking inside. She got upset and left. I heard the shot. People inside the restaurant were diving for cover, so I went out the patio doors to see if I could help.” I looked at Alex, who was standing behind Andrulis. “Any chance you could get me my purse from inside? I’d really like to turn on the AC. I’m roasting.”

  Alex nodded and left. Andrulis watched her go, then turned back to me. “Is there something you wanted to say to me without her here?” He pulled a little handheld recorder out of his jacket pocket. It was the tape kind, not digital, and I could see the little wheels turning when he pressed the button to start the machine.

  “No. I’m just hot. I’d take off my jacket, but…”

  “But you used your shirt to help stop the bleeding.” He smiled at me. It was a good smile.

  “How is Michelle? Is she going to make it?”

  “The victim’s name is Michelle?”

  It occurred to me that the girl hadn’t officially introduced herself. “Michelle Andrews, I think. Her mother’s name was Abigail Andrews, so I’m guessing her last name is Andrews, too.”

  He nodded, and although he didn’t write it down, I could tell he was committing the information to memory. “You’re a bodyguard. Did Ms. Andrews tell you why she was in danger or who might be after her?”

  “Actually, no. She came looking for me because I’d met with her mother before Abigail’s death. When I told her what we’d discussed, she didn’t believe me.

  “I can understand why it was a shock. Apparently Abigail never told Michelle she might be in danger and also never told her that she was adopted. Michelle was pretty much in denial about everything—being in danger, being adopted, and that the woman whose body was found was her mother. She stormed off. Then she got shot.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment as Alex arrived and handed me my purse. I found the keys to the SUV and stuck them in the ignition. “Do you want to get in? The air conditioner will work better if the door’s closed.”

  Charles climbed into the passenger seat while Alex got in the back. The detective raised his brows a bit but didn’t argue. Neither did I.

  I started the vehicle, and soon blessedly cool air was blasting out of the vents. I felt better immediately and gave a little sigh of appreciation.

  Andrulis resumed his questioning. “You said Abigail Andrews hired you to protect Michelle.”

  “No. I said we met. She didn’t hire me. She didn’t like me. Part of that was because she wasn’t wearing a charm against siren influence. But it was also because I pushed her. She didn’t give me a straight story and I didn’t want to take a job blind. So she left. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “Yet you say she’s dead.”

  “A woman matching Abigail Andrews’s description was kidnapped. A couple of days later, a body was found that could be her. I know that because I was questioned after the police found out she’d met with me.”

  “I see.” He cast a brief but meaningful look over the back of the seat. Alex gave him her sweetest smile in return.

  “Ms. Graves, I understand that you were attacked recently and wound up hospitalized as a result. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that attack was connected to this incident or to the kidnapping and possible murder of Abigail Andrews?”

  He meant it to be an aggressive question, but I wasn’t thrown. I mean, seriously, he had to ask. Too, I had nothing to hide.

  “Yes. I do. The attack was supposed to scare me away from taking the assignment. I told them that I hadn’t been hired, but that didn’t matter. The man in the hologram wanted me scared and he wanted to hurt me.”

  “The man in the hologram?”

  “It’s in my report, Charles,” Alex growled.

  “Of course.”

  “The man in the hologram was the one in charge. I don’t know his name. I’ve been going through mug shots, but I haven’t had a lot of luck.”

  “We had a hit on the artist’s rendering in the prison database,” Alex said.

  “Who was it?” Andrulis asked before I could.

  “Connor Finn.”

  Oh, fuck a duck.

  17

  In college, I majored in paranormal studies. As part of my classwork, I took two semesters of the history of magic. One semester dealt primarily with the mage wars. The second included an eight-week session on the Finn/Garza feud.

  The Finns and the Garzas were families of mages. They’d been good friends at first. The originators of the feud had even gone into business together, developing spells and artifacts that were still in general use today. One of my favorite spell disks, the Mudder, a handy little spell that turns solid ground into deep, wet mud, was a Finn pate
nt. They made money hand over fist.

  Until something went wrong.

  The textbooks said it was a dispute over a patent, and maybe it was. But I doubted it. Business disputes generate lawsuits. Feuds are more … personal.

  Whatever the initial reason, the two clans set to killing each other.

  Connor Finn was one of the last two surviving members of his family. The other was his son, Jack, who’d been born during his father’s trial for having loosed a blood curse on the Garza family. Anyone else would have been executed for that crime, but because of his “value” as a mage, Connor had been granted clemency in exchange for providing our government with the spells needed to keep us from losing our last war. He was serving a life sentence—with no possibility of parole—in the Needle, the high-security supermax prison in the middle of Death Valley. The Needle had been created to house mass murderers, terrorists, certain serial killers—the worst of the worst.

  My professor had been completely obsessed with the creativity with which each family had wreaked havoc on the other. I had been treated to detailed descriptions of each and every spell used by either side: Connor’s curse that burned people alive, Juan Garza’s spell that tore them into pieces no bigger than a dime.

  Connor Finn had unleashed his curse at the wedding of Juan Garza and a pregnant Maria Santiago. Every single person present with Garza blood in his or her veins was destroyed. The baby in Maria’s womb was saved only because Maria killed herself as the spell struck. The baby was delivered by postmortem C-section. The child, Lucia Santiago Garza, disappeared from the hospital shortly after her birth, never to appear again.

  Until now.

  Because if Connor Finn was somehow behind these attacks, I’d bet my last dime that the intended victim was a Garza, and Suit—Suit was probably his son, Jack. Like father, like son.

  “You look sick. Are you okay?” Charles asked.

  I felt sick. Remembered images from photographs of the carnage flashed through my mind. The man who’d done that was the man who was threatening me.